


The lady Cassiopeia

by Unbeta



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Forced Feminization, Forced Orgasm, Gender Confusion, Identity Issues, Imprisonment, Infanticide, Mind Control, previous forced gender change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 18:53:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11469609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unbeta/pseuds/Unbeta
Summary: Trapped in a body of Voldemorts creation Harry struggles to be himself.And he's faced with nearly daily rape of his body, and charms that make him crave the touch of his captor, abuser andhusband





	The lady Cassiopeia

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [This Body is My Prison](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10665114) by [JBankai89](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JBankai89/pseuds/JBankai89). 



He was soaking. He woke like that-again. Wetness seeping from inside, dribbling out between thighs. But that wasn't what was really upsetting him, though yes the way he was aroused wasn't normal, and he doubted he'd ever get used to it. Two children in and he was still him, still Harry Potter.

The thing that was getting to him was that Voldemort had been ignoring him. Before he'd birthed their second daughter Voldemort had attended her needs-his needs, Harry's needs not lady Cassiopeia- every night. Now **he** didn't. Harry _knew_ it was the compulsion charms that made him crave Voldemort, but that _didn't_ make it better or easier to resist.

So he was annoyed, he was horny and she needed **him** inside. HE needed **him** inside. God it was hard to keep his pronouns correct, even though he had been a he and nothing else his whole life.

That thought distracted him for a second, and in that second his body had cuddled into Voldemort's side and had begun stroking **him**. Harry felt ill, but he couldn't take his hand back. The penis, while foreign, was the only one he had anymore. It throbbed, it filled and he pretended it was his own. Her vagina throbbed between her thighs, demanding air to breathe. Demanding **his** penis pierce her, feed her womb with seed to make her fat with child. Make everyone see she was owned and **his**. Her own thoughts were degrading her, demeaning her. She was worth far more than a carrier for **his** children.

Harry tried to rework her thoughts to masculine even as she mounted **him**. They would have another child-of that there was no question- but she would not loose himself completely to Voldemort's mind charms, or the pleasure her body took from time with **him** inside. HIS body took from **him**.

Then Voldemort woke. From asleep to waking so fast she-he- was sure **he** had been awake a while.

 **He** held her-his- ass, effectively stopping her from sinking lower on **his** penis. She let out a growl of frustration. He-he let out a growl of fru-anger, definitely anger. Tears welled in his eyes. God he was weak.

"Is it fair that you, my gorgeous wife, should wake me, your prefect husband, like this? Shouldn't I get a say in if we have sex? Surely you only need ask?"

Harry glared, Cassiopeia cried in awful sobs, and Voldemort smiled, so sweetly it made Harry's heart ached for someone that looked at him like that sincerely rather that to play with his emotions.

"Are you going to ask me to partake in the sex you so much want from me, the only man in your life?"

"I'm a man!" Harry protested without thought.

"Are you? Last time I checked you were a woman and had never been a man." Voldemort moving a hand forward to his clitoris and pinching it. Harry moaned as the pinching became massaging and that alien -very female- pleasure filled him.

"You made me this." Harry complained.

"But you were _never_ a man, merely a child that was a pawn. I let you cross the board to become _my queen_." Voldemort returned the hand to his ass and squeezed. "Now beg for what you, my extraordinary example of _womanhood_ , need."

"Never." Harry denied, feeling strong despite the wetness and arousal that was throbbing between them as he stared into Voldemort's eyes wanting so to give in and be fucked throughly into next week.

" _She_ does not want my seed? _She_ does not want my child to grow in _her_? To finally give me a male heir so-"

"Fuck me." Cassiopeia interrupted, she was _weak_. She was everything Harry wasn't, submissive, useless, dependant on Voldemort and female. "Fill me. I want to have your heir growing inside me."

"Of course you do, I'm your _loving_ husband so I will let you continue."

Cassiopeia let out a sob as **he** let go of her ass. It took a moment before she pounded onto **him**. And she thanked **him** \- she was so _weak_ she thanked **him** for the torture of _needing_ **him**. Her vagina hugging **him** , her tears rolling as he laughed at her weakness, her need, _for **him**_. And oh god yes, did it feel good. And she hated it. No; and HE hated it. He would stop, Harry couldn't be pregnant again. That was confusing on a whole other level.

Even as he moved to get off he felt the erratic spasms of Voldemort finding **his** end, of semen filling up his vagina. Harry tried to get off, but Voldemort held him there. Helpless to resist Harry came too. Unwilling, angry, and so very content at the seed filling him. He might birth a son this time, he hoped so. If only there were a spell to ensure that- not that he had access to a wand to use any sort of spell.

\---

Harry was, give a week or so, three months pregnant. He wasn't that fat-yet- but still large enough that his clothes didn't really cover him anymore. He had asked Voldemort for new maternity clothes and had been laughed at. Voldemort pointed out that she hadn't wanted them during the first two children, and he hadn't argued. Because arguing would mean accepting his two children that had already died.

And Voldemort was nowhere to be found, again. Harry decided to get up, and to ignore the burning arousal and wetness that slicked his thighs that rubbed as he walked to the dresser. He pulled out the first dress he touched-they were all awful and choosing what to wear made him have to think about how each would drape off of her body and she didn't enjoy that.

She threw on the dress. It covered next to nothing, but was still better than being naked. Her breasts hurt. His. Who was he kidding? Himself? Everyone else knew that she was female. The only thing that wasn't was her past. She had hips, breast, womb, and such a soft feminine face that had Harry met Cassiopeia he would have had many wet dreams, daydreams- and never the courage to ask out such an effeminate beauty. Even with tears running down her pretty face was she beautiful.

She worked her hair until she stopped crying. The intricate design distracting her from both how she wet the seat and her sadness. But once there was no more to do all she was left with was the arousal. She tentatively touched herself. It felt good, not as good as when Voldemort touched her. No, not Voldemort. Her husband. As when her husband, not Voldemort but someone else who actually loved her, touched her. She played with one hand, as the other stroked her expanded womb. She struggled to find the release her husbands' touch would bring, she tried filling herself with fingers, and when that didn't work she got up and prowled the house for something to fill her. When that failed she collapsed in the living room and cried.

Which was where Voldemort found him hours later. Tears long ago dried and determined not to give in even though the carpet was wet with his need. Voldemort picked him up delicately, wiped away the tracks the tears had left in his makeup and kissed her. The tenderness of the gesture almost tricking him into **him** caring.

Then he was thrown over the back of the chair, his fattened stomach pressed hard against it as Voldemort forced him to bend over it. One finger stroked his vagina, inside it twirled. **He** took it back and placed it in front of Harry's face.

"Clean your mess trophy wife." Harry turned his face away, tried to push off from the chair. But instead he speared himself on Voldemort, her heels making her the prefect height for their genitals to meet, and was pushed back into place. The fingers followed his lips, wetting them with the slick. " _Clean your mess."_ Voldemort hissed, but not in Parseltongue.

He tried to turn his face away, taking it back to go the other way, but **he** was ready for that. Gripping Harry's hair so it hurt Voldemort forced fingers past lips, and thrust into her until she gave out an open mouth moan- she couldn't help it- then fingers passed teeth and played with her tongue even as it retreated back. She tried to spit the fingers out, she tried to not lick them, but they would only leave if she obliged so she sucked.

"You like me filling you at both ends? Even when you already have the child inside that you once claimed was all you wanted. Even as you blamed me for that want?"

"It's the compulsion," she protested.

"The compulsion only ensures you want to bare a child. It heightens that natural desire and nothing else. That you want me, and indeed that you want me to be the father is your own wish."

Harry tried to back up -even as his mind fought to deny the lies Voldemort spoke, they had to be lies- to give himself space to flee, but instead only became complicit in his own rape. Voldemort's hand retracted and Harry was held by bloated stomach and turned. He pulled away from Voldemort only to be half pulled onto, half thrusted into, the only penis in his life. That he moaned, groaned and begged, "please, please oh god," didn't mean he wanted it, only that the forced pleasure had its grasp on him.

Regardless he was mostly begging for it to stop. And even as Voldemort filled him and he was forced to orgasm to Voldemort's hands moments later, having orgasmed multiple times during penetration, he felt oddly pleased to hold onto his gender. He was male, he would get free and with Voldemort dead return to his former gender, no, his only gender. That he could resist the female pleasure, and thoughts that were distinctly lady Cassiopeia, Voldemort's invention, meant he would win.

\---

Harry had made the mistake, once again, to visit his children's graves. Cassiopeia was balling her eyes out, Harry couldn't make it stop. Three little graves, all neatly aligned and well kept. She had no flowers to bring, no offerings to give, but that didn't matter. At least she could show she cared with her presence.

When Voldemort came for her she was a mess. She was easily led back to their room, she lay herself down as instructed, her head falling off the side, and opened her mouth to **his** insistent penis. She had longed **his** touch, but not as acutely as days where she hadn't had it or had been promised it.

She sucked, the quicker **he** came the faster her mouth would no longer be filled. Though she had to admit she liked it. **His** penis fitted her mouth so well, even as it forced her jaw wide. The drag on her lips as she shielded **him** from her teeth sent sparks of arousal down to her crotch. She could almost pretend that her penis was expanding and that her husband was someone to be loved, someone _she_ loved.

Her husbands' penis pushed against tongue in her upside down position. She flattened it, and curled it to cup the thick penis. Her husband was ridiculously well endowed. She nearly chocked as **he** deepened **his** thrusts, **he** would be coming down her throat any second; a waste of **his** seed while she wasn't pregnant. He felt angry, the seed going into the wrong hole. He tried to pull out, to stop **him** , from using his mouth in **his** race for completion. He let out a gasp, then a moan as his clitoris was pinched, then pressed against. His body writhed into the touch, and his throat filled with semen.

"My lady is really damp for a woman that claims not to want her husband." Voldemort teased. "Do you want me to stop? All you have to do is ask."

Harry didn't know what to do, a penis softening in his mouth as hands worked his clitoris and one breast. He moaned around the penis, as she got wetter with pleasure. He tried to deny it, he tried to beg for it to stop. But she didn't really want that, or at least she didn't want it to stop without an orgasm. The penis left her mouth, and all she could do was beg for more, harder, and to be filled with semen though she knew Voldemort wouldn't get it up any time soon.

\---

Another new healer. Harry wasn't surprised, the last one had all but shown his penis- Harry wondered if he were even alive. The new one was female, perhaps she wouldn't bring Voldemort"s ire. Or perhaps she would be lucky to last the day, Harry thought as she offered to give him a hand onto the bed in the manor maternity suite. Harry refused the help, neither wanting nor needing it and knowing Voldemort hated others touching **his** throphy-Horcrux-wife-prize, whatever.

The healer instructed Harry needed to eat more, which Voldemort blamed entirely on him despite that he couldn't eat while **he** wasn't present, in case he try to poison herself. She also stated his water levels were low, which Harry conceded was his fault; then he made an error. A stupid error.

"You want your child to be born healthy? Don't you?"

A question he should have answered any other way than he did; "like hell I care. It's going to die, wether it's one minute or fifty years. It's going to die alone, cold and wondering why its fathers' don't care."

And like that he was treated as a non-person. Voldemort was given calming draughts to give her, shown how to force it into her should she refuse when Harry refused to take one right then, and she was referred to a psychologist to deal with her 'deep seated grief at continuing to produce still borns despite the mostly uneventful pregnancies'. Voldemort, bastard that **he** was, also mentioned she had gender issues and delusions that could be addressed. Then the healer gave Voldemort a food dairy for her, that should be filled out by house elves as they wouldn't miss anything Cassiopeia ingested if told to record it all.

\---

That was it, last straw. He was pregnant, and milk leaked onto his silk dress that left nothing to the imagination. His bloated stomach forcing it to ride up, barely covering her navel, while his swollen breasts sat more inside the space for his cleavage than in the strips of fabric meant to hide them. Voldemort had not been home in days, and she was horny.

Harry wanted out. If he got out of here perhaps his child would live-regardless of gender. And he needed it to live. But where could he go? His image, or rather her image, had been everywhere when he had been taken to visit the ministry, 'to see what her glorious and caring husband did while she looked after the manor,' it made him sick. People called out their envy, they told her how lucky she was to be picked by **him**. And when they sat next to each other **he** curled an arm round her, dipping under her short dress and into lace panties if the action couldn't be seen.

She had spent the day in near constant arousal, clinging close hoping for **him** to fuck her rather than fuck _with_ her. The picture in the daily Prophet the next day made her look like a hussy, and not only because of the clothes Voldemort had put her in, but they spoke of her respectfully. They had to, lady Cassiopeia was the dark lord"s consort, **his** wife.

The edge of the garden was the first step, getting out of wards and into the forest beyond. Harry couldn't imagine Voldemort putting out a search warrant for **his** run-away wife. Nor telling **his** death eaters that he had fled. It would destroy the loving husband **he** wanted the public to believe in, and show the abusive one **he** was.

Harry had packed a few days food, a wizarding tent he'd found and wrapped herself in a blanket to conceal his body. He was surprised at the lack of barrier, or any sign that anyone knew he had climbed, mostly fallen if he were honest, over the wall. She was free, now to stay that way. He didn't know if the resistance was still around, even if he did he neither knew how to contact them or if they would accept her story of being Harry.

He blinked his eyes open. Pleasure running through his body as someone rammed into his wet gapping hole that needed filled with Voldemort"s semen. The red eyes watching him wake almost had him back in himself, the dream of freedom tempted him back. Closing eyes he imagined walking through the forest, the way a branch hit him when he stumbled. So unused to walking in heels on dirt, but needs must. They dug in every few seconds. And he was panting, out of breath.

"Cassiopeia, what do you dream that is so much better than being fucked by me?"

Any illusion Harry held was shattered as her nipples were tweaked and she came, hard, on Voldemort"s penis. **He** followed her into her second orgasm minutes later.

\---

"This is a free space, you are welcome to discuss anything that concerns you." His therapist said. Harry held back any reaction. He had been through three sessions without saying anything. "None of this leaves these walls."

Five minutes silence, Harry watched the clock.

"You must know your husband cares a lot to choose me as your therapist rather than accepting the first free one that the NHS provides?"

Harry almost gave a sarcastic response; _his_ husband was rich and had picked this muggle because he knew nothing of the magical world. Even if Harry wanted to share he would be seen as delusional. Even if he wanted help dealing with his situation he couldn't get it here.

Meanwhile Voldemort had announced her mental issues following her third 'stillborn'. Saying that she was seeing a highly respected muggle therapist as any wizarding one could hardly be seen as impartial. And **he** added it may be years until she would be stable enough to face the public again; meaning getting out of the house was now impossible. He didn't even leave for the therapy sessions, the awful man came to him, was let in by Voldemort early morning every Thursday and let out hours later when Voldemort returned for lunch, which made a show of being the norm rather than completely unusual.

It was impossible to tell the man that he was supposed to 'talk his issues out with' anything, because Voldemort did the worried, caring husband act all too well when **he** wanted to; but **he** made sure Harry knew it was an act, nights following therapy were worst. Voldemort didn't waste time making her horny, wet, **he** simply dove in. His skin would grip and shift with **him** painfully, reminding him that her body was submissive, it bent to **him**. It responded to **him** , it caved to **him** and it was weaker than **his**. And she would get wet, in the hard deep thrusts the first she was aware of her arousal was the lessening pain and the squelching beginning.

Harry shifted uncomfortably and his wet thighs rubbed giving a quiet squishy noises that he flushed at producing, but was certain that only he had heard. He was drowning his thighs with thoughts of his own rape. He couldn't do this.

"Your husband told me you keep a graveyard, since the church won't let you bury your stillborns."

Harry froze, not that he had been moving much. But he defiantly tensed.

"I thought we could visit them. It can be very helpful to speak to the departed."

Harry followed the man down towards the graves, apprehension mounting as the reached the top of the stairs. He couldn't make himself take another step. Harry's breath came in sharp bursts as he hyperventilated slightly. The man turned and spoke softly to him.

"I understand you lost your parents very young. Lily and James Black? And that you where raised by your paternal uncle Sirius Black who let you idolise your parents and died almost a decade ago while you were still in boarding school. Before you met your husband? That you had destroyed all support methods you might have had at the start of that year?"

Harry closed his eyes and wondered how many things Voldemort had provided about his 'past'.

"And the very next year your headmaster died to a heart attack? Then not a year later your favourite teachers also die? It must have been a very traumatic time for you, seeing death everywhere? Loosing all your Guardians?"

Harry forced himself to breathe as he realised the man was coming closer, that seemed to satisfy him as he stopped approaching.

"Your husband says you were almost reliant on your headmaster. He provided board, food and an ear to talk about your losses while they tried to contact your godparents. That after the deputy also died you traveled and hid for an entire year rather than deal with another death."

Harry had to hand it to Voldemort, none of it was true, but it followed observed facts enough that had Harry not been told this and had been willing to talk his mugglified version of events would likely be a close enough match that this man would happily lay the beside each other, with allowances for Harry's 'delusions'.

"You know nothing about me." Harry protested. The smile the man gave him make him want to take his words back-even if it looked to be sincere care behind it- how had he not seen that the man was trying to provoke him?

"But yet I wish to help you with your depression. Not because it's my job, but because I want to help you. Today will be a success for you if you can simply find enough bravery to visit your children. To say hello, to say a goodbye, to tell them you miss them."

Harry found the courage, or Cassiopeia did, in the challenge. Taking the stairs in only slightly wobbly steps.

He stood for only a moment before he sat beside his eldest-though he wasn't sure it counted as she died far faster than the others, Voldemort hadn't realised he could parade the death and make it far more traumatic than a simple killing curse before Harry had even held his daughter. He plucked at weeds, briefly wondering how their seeds had gotten in. Probably on Voldemort's shoe whenever **he** came down here to get her.

"Talk to them."

She glared at him, she didn't need this. She was quite content not saying anything and pulling up weeds. Her daughters never spoke, they never learnt English.

"It really can help, it doesn't even have to mean anything. Even a hello to each of them."

"A hello? And you'll leave me alone?"

"Today, if that's really what you want."

"Hello," Harry began strong, his voice unwavering, "hello," he could hear the clipped quality to his hello. That wasn't fair on his daughters. "Hel-" her tears cut her off. "I'm sorry." She told them. "I wasn't strong enough for you."

The man, true to his words, didn't try to force her to do anything else. He offered a hug, she denied, he offered to leave, she accepted in an instant.

When Voldemort returned she heard them discuss in mostly quiet tones what should be done concerning lunch; though unsure who was arguing which side she walked up the stairs, head held high despite what must be impressively smudged makeup, and continuing tears. Voldemort took her into a hug, squeezing her tight, forcing her both to remain and struggle to breathe, and demanded the man leave, _that instant_.

The man never came back. Cassiopeia wasn't sure how she felt about it. Saying hello to her daughters had changed something in her. She couldn't place what, but it became routine. Whenever Voldemort was too much to bare she would greet her daughters and tell them about her day. She kept it clean; it was her _daughters_ she was talking to.

Maybe that man, with a bit of time and some more force, could help her in some small fashion? Make her deal with her situation. But that would mean she no longer fought, and she needed to fight. No longer for herself, but for others. People she no longer knew or saw. And for all the unborn muggles that _would_ suffer if Voldemort continued to rule.

Perhaps waiting for an opportunity was more important than happiness. Perhaps she could suffer more, perhaps she could suffer less no longer thinking about them. Wouldn't it be less exhausting than trying to get information about the outside world that Voldemort didn't provide? Living in this fortress home, which was as much to keep her _in_ as others _out_. Maybe, just maybe, she could get through this, and her fourth child would be the heir Voldemort desired. Though that desire was weird to her; why would someone sure on their immortality want an heir? But then she was sure to be immortal unless she somehow found a wand, or say basilisk venom to kill the Horcrux- in case Cassiopeia died and the Horcrux took over, and every day all she wanted was children. _Plural_. Girls _and_ boys.


End file.
